


Fruitcake

by lferion



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Community: livelongnmarry, Domesticity, Established Relationship, Food, M/M, Ritual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-22
Updated: 2008-11-22
Packaged: 2017-10-02 03:20:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Methos makes fruitcake. Duncan helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fruitcake

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Qatsi101 for the livelongnmarry auction. No prompt was given, but she did say she liked 'Ceremonies of Spring'. This was written in conjunction with and partly inspired by auberus' 'Apple Butter'. Could be said to be a cousin to my own "Yak Butter".
> 
> Many thanks to auberus and reshcat for encouragement, editing and commentary.
> 
> The recipe that Methos is using is [](http:)here.
> 
> [](http:)The Wikipedia article on fruitcake.
> 
> [](http:)Stir up Sunday article
> 
> The text of all the Latin Sunday collects is [](http:)here.

Last week it had been apple-butter. This week, apparently, it was fruitcake that got Methos out of bed both unusually early and unusually chipper on a drizzly autumn morning.

Duncan watched in amusement as Methos ransacked the kitchen alcove for implements of construction — every mixing bowl, at least three whisks and the big slotted spoon, things to measure with and things to melt other things in. He had found a set of little bread-pans lurking at the back of a cupboard that Duncan had forgotten he even had.

"Have you got any parchment-paper?" Methos' voice was muffled by the pantry door.

"Should be on the right-hand shelf with the tin-foil and the butcher paper." What did he need the parchment paper for? Duncan wondered. Methos was a firm advocate of cooking spray for keeping things from sticking in pans, when he did cooking-in-pans at all. Duncan himself preferred what he thought of a 'real grease' — butter or lard or bacon-fat, depending.

"Ah." There was a sound of rustling and Methos disappeared entirely from view into the closet that served as a pantry. He emerged with his hair ruffled, brandishing the roll like a paper sword in one hand, the box of foil in the other. "We need some of that cling-film too. Unless you really want to go the brandy-soaked cloth route. Or pack them in a brandy-keg." He was grinning, and for some reason looked like a twelve year old with a new bicycle, all elbows and anticipation.

Duncan felt his heart turn over, struck suddenly and once again with wonder and what could only be called love for this difficult, mercurial, fascinating and ancient-yet-ever-new creature, this man who chose to be and stay with him, loving in return. They had known each other not even two decades, a mere fraction of Duncan's life, much less of Methos', and yet in some ways it seemed as though they had been connected forever. And for too much of that time they had been at odds, or constrained by circumstance (Galati, Ahriman, Byron, Kalas, Kronos.… also Alexa, Anne, even Amanda) and distanced from each other.

"You," a bop on the nose with the roll of paper brought Duncan back to the present moment, "are thinking again. Stop it."

Duncan looked up at the man in front of him. Methos' eyes were still sparkling, crinkled at the corners with a smile that softened the sharpness of his face. The line of his mouth, which could be so mocking, grim and thin, was curved, but also shadowed with the tightness that Duncan had finally learned was concern. Fifteen years they had danced around each other, in and out of each other's lives, been aware of each other it seemed since the first moment, yet what was between them now was not even a fortnight old. Duncan could smell the shower-clean scent of Methos' skin, still feel the curve of his shoulder and the soft crispness of his hair in the palms of his hands. A breath stopped in his throat and his heart beat hard in his chest.

"I said," another bop with the paper and a wry twist to Methos' lips, "stop it. We are making fruitcake here." He put the roll on the table in front of Duncan with a flourish and grinned again, saying with great seriousness: "I need you to make the pan-liners."

Duncan laughed, putting the sheer physical awareness between them to the back of his mind and seeing the absurdity of the situation, finally getting into the spirit of the project. "And fruitcake is the most important thing in the world right now, is it?"

"Yup. The prosperity of the coming year depends upon it. And these fruitcakes require pan-liners." Methos stacked the pans in towers on the table and turned back to the counter, muttering to himself, "Now, where did the nutmeg grinder go?"

The pans seemed to have multiplied in the cupboard. Duncan didn't remember owning _that_ many. There must be two dozen of them, maybe three. Duncan got up to collect the scissors and the other supplies and tools he'd need. He'd watched Irene do this long ago with a template and great concentration. With that many pans to line a template seemed like a good idea. He grabbed a manila folder from the desk as he went by. "How much fruitcake are you planning on making?"

Now Methos was rooting in the refrigerator, pulling out what looked like a pallet-load of eggs and several pounds of butter. It was the good butter from the bakery around the corner, and the eggs bore the mark of the collective that sold at the twice-weekly farmer's market. He popped his head up over the open door, brandishing a jelly jar. "Enough to give some to all your friends, of course. And the old ladies at the flower shop. The dojo regulars. The staff at Joe's. Spreading the wealth." A thoughtful note entered Methos' cheerful recitation. " I'll have to get Joe to give me the researcher's stocking-list." A bottle of juice appeared beside the jelly and Methos shut the refrigerator. "Three batches should be enough."

It occurred to Duncan as he settled into measuring and marking that Methos actually _was_ perfectly serious about the whole fruitcake-as-prosperity ritual, even while apparently making light of it. It was in the focus and energy he applied to each detail, every step of the process of creation. Duncan was put in mind of his own mortal youth, and the intensity with which the village had prepared for the festivals of the year, the _belief_ that had carried Little Deer and her people through the seasons. Methos had lived for thousands of years in a world where belief was a much stronger force than science or reason. For a moment, the thoroughly modern t-shirt-and-jeans-clad Methos contemplating the level of cooking sherry in the bottle was overlain with an image of that same form in buckskins, in fur and leather and long black hair, in nothing but the glory of his skin, contemplating an offering of wine to the gods. It was a startlingly powerful image, visceral without being at all erotic. Duncan shook himself and got up again to put some music on the stereo. He wanted something instrumental and up-beat with a hint of harvest-not-yet-winter about it without being actual holiday music — his own contribution to the work.

He knew he had chosen well when he saw Methos moving with the rhythm of the music, a subtle almost-dance as he chopped nuts and cut candied peel into smaller pieces, a mound of fruit growing to noble proportions in Duncan's biggest bowl. He allowed himself to appreciate the way Methos' jeans hugged his strong thighs and well-shaped rear. He was pleasantly aware of his own physicality, and content to let that awareness hover on the edge of arousal. He felt very light and alive as they worked companionably, the music filling the edges of the room, the occasional rain on the windows a soft counterpoint.

When all the paper had been cut and folded Duncan stood and stretched. "Time for a break, old man. I'm ready to eat something, and didn't you say we needed cling-film?"

***

Methos looked up and smiled, seeing the small army of neatly lined pans. He was at a stopping point, he realized, coming fully out of the almost trance state of repetitive motion — the fruit and nuts prepared, the first bowlful ready to be floured — and it had been a very long time since he had done this kind of concentrated cooking. "We'll want more brandy, too. And some of those foil lasagna pans to use as trays for the baking pans."

Domesticity suited Duncan, Methos decided, putting down the paring knife and shaking out his hands. There was an ease to his movement — tidying the small stack of mail, reaching for his coat, tossing Methos his own — and an uncomplicated serenity that was as different as chalk from cheese compared to the stiffness and determination that had driven him for so long after losing Richie, Connor, all the other casualties of the bitter years recently past. He caught the coat and eeled his arms into the sleeves, his sword a familiar weight against his side. A walk in the soft weather (and northern Washington state was a distinct improvement in that area from any number of other places he had spent late autumn in), a meal — bread and beer and company — would be pleasant. And by the time they got back the butter would be soft and the eggs warmed to the right temperature.

They argued companionably all the way to the store, Duncan optimistically forecasting a revitalization of the area, as seen in the shopfronts with clean windows and fresh paint, many with autumn decorations, not to mention less clutter and trash in the gutters. Methos contributed the occasional provocative statement, mostly to keep Duncan going. The rain had slacked off, but the continuing heaviness of the sky meant that more was on the way. When they got to the shop, Duncan was immediately lured by the bright piles of apples and pears, while Methos quested for the baking aisle.

Cling-film achieved as well as a package of aluminum lasagna pans, Methos found Duncan in the wine and spirits section, contemplating brandy. He had a bag of apples dangling from his fingers, and Methos took a moment just to appreciate the sight of the Highlander. His Highlander: rested, happy, hair springing in waves, half caught back in a knotwork clip, the rest loose on his shoulders. Methos liked Duncan's hair long, and was glad to see it grown again. He was the picture of a man happy in his skin. When Duncan looked over and noticed him watching, Methos felt warmed by his smile, and grinned back in return. "Nothing fancy — it's for marinating, not sipping."

"Might as well get something that can be sipped, though," Duncan replied, choosing a bottle and tucking it into the crook of his arm. "I was thinking we could give that new pizza place a try, you know, encouraging local business."

Methos enjoyed Duncan bantering with the cashier — a woman who knew them well, and who was _definitely_ on the fruitcake list — and smiled when he let her talk him into a contribution to the local holiday food drive. When Duncan lived in a place he _lived_ in it, taking part in neighborhood life, getting involved in the day-to-day lives of the people around him. Making a point of giving the nearby shops and restaurants his business was part and parcel of that groundedness. Methos found himself doing the same, casually connecting to the wider world around him as he had not for some time. And thus "The Polished Pizza Place" would provide sustenance. It certainly smelled promising.

They got the special of the day — thin crust, caramelized onions and figs on provolone, with nary a tomato in sight. The beer was a local microbrew that Joe had recommended. Duncan tucked a menu (eat in or take out, delivery on request) into the bag with the apples.

The rain began again a block from the door to the dojo, and Duncan took a firm grip on his bags. "Race you for it!"

Methos took advantage of his longer legs and dashed for the entry, dodging raindrops. They reached the vestibule together and leaned against the wall, dripping and laughing. Outside the overhang, rain fell in benison, kissing the ground as it had kissed their faces. Wet, Duncan's hair curled almost into ringlets.

Back in the loft, Duncan hung up their coats and fetched some towels, tossing one to Methos before vigorously rubbing at his dripping hair. Methos caught the towel and scrubbed it over his own head, toeing off his shoes to dry under the coat-rack. He wiggled his toes in his socks, grinning when Duncan followed suit. Methos added the rest of the loot to the assembled supplies, smiling. Duncan began stacking the apples in a bowl, carefully peeling off the little stickers.

The butter was the perfect softness for creaming into the sugar.

***

"So, what next?" Duncan asked, putting the fruit-bowl out of the way.

"Now you get to mix those together," Methos nodded at the little array of grape jelly, grape juice and sherry measured out in separate cups. The bright kitchen lights glimmered jewel-like in the clear depths, purple and red and amber. "And no jelly-lumps."

Duncan raised his eyebrows, but took the bowl, spoon and whisk readily enough, eyeing the jelly, dense and gleaming. "Do you have a preferred method? Or perhaps there is an invocation to be spoken over the mixture?" Methos had tied an apron around his waist — one of the frivolous ones that Duncan had been given as a joke — and he managed to somehow look both pagan and endearing in it, and not at all ridiculous.

"Oh, no. The invocation comes later, when everyone present takes a turn stirring the batter." Methos was separating the eggs, long fingers deft and sure and delicate as he cracked the shells and let the whites fall into the bowl while the yolk moved from one half-shell to the other. Duncan had an egg-separator, a clever thing of spiral wire, but it didn't even occur to him to mention it, watching Methos' effortless, almost sensual skill. The yolks looked like fat little suns as more and more of them crowded together in the glass bowl, not one of them broken.

Duncan trickled a little of the sherry into his own bowl, and used the back of the spoon to smooth the jelly against the side. The jelly resisted smearing, but with patience he managed it, adding the sherry and the juice in small amounts, alternating between the back of the spoon and the whisk to mix them. Duncan had turned the music back on when they returned, and Methos was again moving unselfconsciously with the rhythm of it, putting aside the bowl of egg whites, beating the yolks and mixing them with the sugar and butter. The deep brown of the sugar darkened the rich yellow of the yolks to amber.

The scent of good sherry, butter and sugar and the waiting spices began to tease Duncan's nose. It reminded him of other kitchens, other cooks, other seasons, while the work in his hands kept him grounded and aware of the present, of _this_ moment, _this_ place and time and person. He felt connected to that past, but not immersed in it, and wondered if Methos were feeling something of the same kind of timeless being in the moment.

Almost as if reading his mind, Methos broke into speech, "The Romans made fruitcake, you know. _Pan dulce_, pomegranate seeds, pine-nuts, raisins and figs in barley meal with eggs and honey and spices." His hands were busy sifting flour into a fluffy white hill, measuring most of it out into yet another bowl. "Maybe I should be making that instead. Or no, next time. This year is Caroline's recipe." The rest of the flour was set beside the enormous mound of candied fruit and nuts.

Duncan smiled to himself as he poured the last of the juice into the jelly-mix. He had a soft spot for Methos in nattering mode, and enjoyed his unexpected foray into researcher-land and fruitcake trivia. For all that 'Adam Pierson' was a persona on the surface, Methos really was 'Adam' in many ways. Now he was explaining the finer points and symbolism of the types of fruit and the specific spices.

Duncan gave a last whisking to his bowl and looked up. "There. No lumps," he spoke into a pause in the narrative. Methos was grinding nutmeg into the flour, apparently measuring by eye and nose. It smelled wonderful. "What now?" There was a streak of flour on Methos' cheek, and a dusting of it in his still-damp hair.

"What?" Methos said, blinking. "Oh, good. That's perfect." He shook his head a little, and his eyes returned to the present, focusing on the purple-red liquid in the bowl in Duncan's hands. "The next part is flouring the fruits. It works best with just hands." Methos put the nutmeg grinder down and spread his fingers wide. "Or you can mix the flour-mix and the jelly-mix into the butter, egg and sugar-mix." Now he laced his hands together and stretched his arms over his head, all long strength and easy grace.

Duncan was very conscious for a moment of how the muscles moved under Methos' skin, and the blood rushing through his own veins. Duncan's fingers tingled, warm and alive. He wiggled them, and Methos grinned at him. Plunging his hands into that gloriously sticky-sweet mass seemed surprisingly like fun.

Methos lowered his arms and nodded as Duncan pointed his chin at the bowl and stepped to the sink to wash and dry his hands. "Fruit-flouring it is then."

Duncan tucked the dishtowel into his belt, and approached the daunting basin of fruit and nuts. He could certainly see that hands would be better for this job than any spoon. At the other end of the counter Methos was alternately adding and mixing, moving between his three bowls in a complex dance. Smiling, Duncan sprinkled a generous handful of flour on the mound and dug in. The textures were fascinating: the flour dry and soft, the nuts hard, smooth and almost slippery, the candied peel and citron were gritty with sugar, the cherries (red _and_ green, and plenty of both, thank you very much) slick. The raisins yielded under his fingertips, soft between his fingers, and the dates were very sticky indeed. He could see why Methos had left them for last, and therefore on the top of the pile where the flour would cover them first. He sprinkled more flour, and scraped the fruits stuck between his fingers back into the mix, getting his back into digging down to the bottom of the basin where the nuts were and scooping them to the top, imagining all the different layers stirring around and mixing together. Getting the dates to stop clumping took attention. Duncan gave it.

Methos had finished combining his three bowls into one, and now it looked like batter, thick and gold and glistening. Before he put it to one side he swiped a fingertip along the rim, collecting a dollop. Duncan stopped for a moment to watch as Methos tasted it, licking delicately like a cat. The kitchen was noticeably warmer. Perhaps Methos had already turned the oven on to pre-heat.

"Taste?"

Duncan almost jumped. He'd been so lost in consideration of heat and … other things … he hadn't noticed Methos coming around the counter, a second fingerful of batter held out. His own hands were still wrist-deep in the fruits. Before he could actually think, Duncan stuck out his own tongue and caught the sliding drop. Butter and spice and sweetness filled his nose, his mouth; but his lips held the memory of the texture of Methos' skin, the heat of his touch. Before Duncan could quite collect himself, Methos was leaning over his elbows, looking at the contents of the basin. There was flour on his nose now, right where Duncan had once spontaneously swiped a brushful of paint.

"That looks ready." Methos straightened back up and reached for the dishcloth to wipe his hands. As Duncan scraped the last clinging date from his fingers, Methos snuck a cherry from the pile and popped it in his mouth, grinning unrepentantly.

Duncan laughed. "Sometimes I think you are five, not five thousand."

Methos gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence that was somehow not at odds with the mischievous curve of his lips. "Only five?" He handed Duncan the towel and cocked a hip, leaning back against the counter. He glanced down, lashes dark against his skin, and when he looked back up the light in his eyes was something deep and wild and old. Duncan's mouth went dry. Then Methos said lightly, "How else would I stay young?" and the moment was gone.

Duncan went over to the sink to wash his hands and steady his breathing.

When he returned, Methos had turned chameleon-like back into the young man of indeterminate age that he usually presented to the world, but Duncan could still see the agelessness and the ages old hovering at the edges and behind his eyes. He was ladling the batter over the fruit, using a stout wooden spoon to lift and fold the floury morsels into the amber pools. Duncan judged there was just enough batter to stick everything together, the creamy thick liquid acting as a matrix for the fruit and nuts more than as cake.

After a moment, Methos looked over at Duncan, aiming an eyebrow and a sharp glance at Duncan's empty and now-dry hands. "Last thing, a smidge of salt, and whip those stiff but not dry." He pointed his chin at the bowl of egg whites. "By hand."

Duncan got the last big whisk out of the jar where it was standing alone, nearly every other implement of stirring and mixing having been used, and set to. He could think of something else that was well on its way to being stiff but not dry, and no whipping involved at all. He chuckled, and the corners of Methos' eyes crinkled in answer.

As they stirred Methos began speaking, the words resonant and deep, teasing at the edge of Duncan's memory and understanding:

_Excita, quaesumus, Dómine, tuórum fidélium voluntátes, ut, divíni óperis fructum propénsius exsequéntes, pietátis tuae remédia maióra percípiant. Per Dóminum._

It was Latin, the words of the medieval church, but the pronunciation far older. And even though Duncan was quite sure that the Domine being addressed was not exactly the figure the Christians had intended, the invocation was not in the least mocking or blasphemous. A shiver ran along his skin, and when Methos switched to English, Duncan joined his voice to the prayer:

_Stir up, we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people; that they, plenteously bringing forth the fruit of good works, may of thee be plenteously rewarded; through our Lord._

For a moment the spices in the air reminded Duncan of incense, and the kitchen held a ghost of the indefinable sense of Holy Ground. The vibration of their words faded, and they looked at each other. Methos' eyes were very green.

"Shall we declare this 'Stir up Sunday?" Duncan asked, half-joking.

"We are certainly 'stirring up'," Methos answered with a smile. The batter was all mixed in, everything in the big bowl the color of honey. "Though Advent is still several weeks away. And it isn't actually Sunday."

Duncan had not thought about the fact that Methos would be familiar with the rites and rituals of the Christian church, but of course he was, in their many forms and variations, just as Duncan himself was. More so, since he had lived through more of them. The egg-whites were almost ready, beginning to form peaks. Duncan's hand slowed as he thought. "Darius really believed in God, though I never asked him about what he thought about the details of the story of Christ. Do you? Believe in God?"

Methos put his own spoon down. "I believe in all gods," he said without levity. "How could any Immortal not, with Holy Ground as evidence? Or — not in gods, precisely, but in the power lent them by human belief." Then his smile broke out again as he looked thoughtfully at the glistening batter in the bowl. "Though even that doesn't explain everything. Maraschino cherries, for example, or Disco." His eye turned to the froth of egg-whites in Duncan's bowl. "Another minute with those, and then we fold them together with this, and everybody makes a wish."

"I thought wishes were for the Christmas Pudding." Duncan remarked as he put the whisk back into action. "Along with the charms."

"Wishes can be stirred into anything. They are symbol and intent, like magic. Or chemistry." He busied himself piling some of the clutter of used dishes into the sink and running water over them while Duncan finished with the egg-whites. "Breath and effort. Anything can be a wish." Methos materialized behind Duncan's shoulder. His breath was warm on Duncan's ear. "Those are perfect. Now tip them in."

Carefully, Duncan did so. They looked like clouds gathered on a mountaintop, all air and effort, as Methos had said. Perhaps clouds were wishes too. They slipped cleanly from the glass to the batter.

Methos plucked the now-empty bowl from Duncan's hand and put the big wooden mixing spoon in its place. "'Wish for the new year, wish for the old, wish for a future that's brighter than gold.'"

It sounded like a children's skipping rhyme. Duncan concentrated on gently folding and stirring, thinking of what he might wish for. It had begun to rain again, water sheeting against the windows and clattering against the roof, the storm that the morning's scattered showers had presaged. The kitchen was warm and comfortable, and Duncan was struck with the moment. He _was_ happy, trading banter and philosophy, affection and innuendo with a man he loved, who loved him. Making fruitcake. Making wishes for the future. Content. He wished that this might be available for everyone, that he and Methos might go forward with this understanding they had found, and were continuing to find. He stirred deliberately, once, twice, thrice around.

Then Duncan stepped back and gave the spoon to Methos. He took it, one corner of his mouth lifted in a smile, and stirred deep. Duncan watched the flex of his shoulders and the way his hips moved, feeling again the pleasant heat and tingle in his groin and conscious of the happiness in his heart. There was no urgency in his desire, no distraction; it merely added a note — like the rain added a note — to the music of the day and the work he and Methos were making together.

When Methos was done stirring, he started filling the pans, poking the batter into the corners and smoothing the tops. Duncan took the filled pans and ranked them in the foil lasagna pans, fitting in as many as would go before pouring in enough water to make it a bath an inch deep. He was glad he had a big oven, and as it was it was going to take two oven loads to get them all baked. Presently the timer was set, and Duncan insisted on getting the dishes washed and put away before doing anything else.

***

Dishes done and the warm scent of cinnamon and nutmeg still floating in the air, Methos sprawled on the couch, watching Duncan move about the loft, at home in his space. Duncan had roots here, not just in this house, this city, but this part of the world; roots almost as strong as the ones that anchored him in Paris, connected him, always, with Scotland. It was a strength, but it could also be a liability. Methos put the thought from him. He knew better than to either invite trouble or invent it. This was a moment to savor, to thoroughly enjoy while they had it.

A hand rested briefly on his shoulder. "Now you are the one thinking too much." Duncan's voice was warm.

Methos looked up to see the smile lurking in his eyes, and leaned further back into the embrace of the cushions, one arm stretched out along the top. Even now sometimes Duncan surprised him with his perceptions. Methos grounded himself in people, not places — places changed in ways people didn't, and Duncan wasn't old enough to have learned that yet. Oh, certainly _a_ person could and did change, but _people_ did not — though it was rare indeed that he found such a connection in another Immortal. He smiled back, and let the sheer physical sense of being in the here-and-now come to the fore, eyes and body inviting Duncan to join him.

When Duncan settled next to him on the couch, Methos could feel the warmth of him radiating out, smell the rain and the spice in his damp-curled hair. The leg that rested alongside his own was solid, the hand that explored the texture of his jeans and the juncture of hip and thigh was gentle but not shy after a first almost imperceptible hesitation. When Methos looked over, Duncan's eyes were veiled by his lashes, but there was color on his cheeks that the oven and the fire did not account for. It was comfortable, being together, letting the energy, the desire between them grow without haste, building slowly, deliberately. When Duncan leaned his head back against the cushions, into the curve of Methos' arm, Methos let his fingers catch a lock of Duncan's hair, and for a long moment they simply _were_, breathing together.

Then Duncan's hand became bolder, finding and loosing buttons, the other joining it to ease open cloth that had gotten steadily more constricting, and Methos felt like one of his fruitcakes, held together by the paper of his skin, Duncan's fire heating him through, being unwrapped, ready to be pierced, filled with brandied tongue, breath and fire and spirit.

When Duncan's mouth found the hypersensitive juncture of his neck and shoulder, Methos cried out, writhing under the exquisite onslaught, and he tugged at Duncan, wanting to feel his weight, his heat everywhere he could. Duncan chuckled, a dark, rich sound full of promise, and flowed upright, bringing Methos with him, and they stumbled the few steps to the bed, shedding clothing as they went.

***

Duncan stopped a moment when Methos spread himself out on the sheets, skin paler and more delectable than the batter even now in the oven, invitation and arousal in every movement as he stretched, from the lithe arch of his back to the proud jut of his sex. Duncan felt his own excitement building higher, eager but not desperate. It was as if the measured and intricate effort of making the fruitcakes had shaped his desire, and completing it wanted the same attention, the same slow, inexorable heat that was turning the water to steam in the oven, baking the cakes.

"Bring forth the fruit of our works, O beloved, spending our substance in service of the season, marking the day, the hour of delight." There was delight and need both in Methos' voice, and the same resonance that had echoed in the earlier invocation.

Duncan shivered a little, the mixture of the sacred and the mundane, the ordinary and the extraordinary fizzing along his skin. It had not occurred to him that sex, making love, could be intentionally sacred, any more than he had thought making fruitcake could be. But the look on Methos' face said it was so. Duncan found himself on the bed, drawn to touch, hands hungry for the feel of heated skin and mouth eager to worship. "Are you telling me that _this_ is part of the ritual?"

Methos' smile lit his eyes and he laughed, pulling Duncan down further and twining their limbs together. "Of course it is, if we wish it." Now his hands were moving on Duncan's body as skillfully and purposefully as they had earlier, and Duncan felt as cherished as he did aroused. It was an astonishing sensation.

Methos went on, "What is fertility, prosperity, but a willing sacrifice of seed, of resource, of breath and will and work that life may continue, love grow?" He arched under Duncan, bringing their groins together, and they both gasped. "What better way to seal the Work than with Love?" Methos' hand was on the back of Duncan's neck, bringing their mouths together, and Duncan was lost in the kiss as their lips met.

Hours later they again lay entwined, sticky and spent. Methos' head rested against Duncan's shoulder, and in the dim light from the window his lashes were black fans on his cheeks, his hair soft shadow. The cakes were baked, cooled, brandied and wrapped, the energy and delight that Methos had started the ritual with (and it was a ritual, all of it, the baking and the banter and the sex and the sleep) carried through to the end. The fire had died down to embers, the rain still hushed against the windows, and the man in his arms slept sound. A man not unlike a fruitcake himself, complex and difficult, hard and dark and unexpectedly sweet, flammable and spirited and only getting better with age. Duncan laughed at himself, at the metaphor, feeling the languor and lingering pleasure still sifting through his system, sleep beckoning. That Methos was an inventive and energetic lover was not at all surprising.

Methos moved a little in his arms, curling closer, and Duncan dropped a soft kiss on the top of his head. If Methos was the fruitcake, then he was the wrapping, or maybe they were fruitcakes together, nestled safe in the dark. Duncan smiled at the persistent and ridiculous thought and tightened his arms around Methos. He remembered his wish. Prosperity in the coming year would mean both of them getting better with age, together.

***


End file.
